


colorant rouge

by textbookchoices



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26005108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookchoices/pseuds/textbookchoices
Summary: These romantic notions, these stories ofreliques saintesholding the power of God—it's not a thing a man who has been through war, through the crusades, has time or heart to consider.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11
Collections: Short August Medieval Exchange 2020





	colorant rouge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



Raymond watches the so-called _muet_ where he sits in the dirt, surrounded by these so-called pious monks.

They are fools; worshiping a mere rock as though it has the powers they’ve described, as if a stone used to murder a man was any different than any other tool used to bleed a body. Raymond doubts his own father’s sanity to believe such ridiculous tales, and these monks… fools, all of them, falling prey to their own hypocrisy.

Men all bleed the same, holy or filth, and any rock on the ground will do the job just as well. Ridiculous romantic notions that a saint would be any different. Ideas for the old and the foolish, and perhaps those who can afford the frivolities of unproven hope.

 _Stupides moines pieux._ He spits on the ground. _Moines bonimenteurs_ , he thinks, is a more apt descriptor considering the pharisaical company that they keep.

The man they call their lay-brother sits with them now, helping the youngest of them mend a tear in his robe, pretending not to speak as the little monk chatters away. _C’est vrai_ , pretending he cannot speak to answer for his sins.

He is cowering from reality.

These romantic notions, these stories of _reliques saintes_ holding the power of God—it's not a thing a man who has been through war, through the crusades, has time or heart to consider. God may be real, Raymond is not so far gone as to say he is not, but Raymond knows this: if God is real, he does not give a shit about anyone down on this lowly Earthen ground. He does not listen to the screams as men are killed, to the cries of women and children tortured and starved to death.

None receive answers or mercy from God.

Raymond has long since given up asking for forgiveness from God, he who wills men to kill one another for dirt and sand and mud, or at least, doesn’t care that they choose to do so for gold and silver and the heat of blood and strain during battle.

Raymond recognizes him.

He was not so close during battle that he knows the man’s name. He hardly remembers all the battles, skirmishes and fights, the massacres and pillaging all in the name of their Holy God. They blend together after a time.

But he recognizes him, as do some of his men, those that followed him through the crusades, through the blood and the sweat and battle and back here, to this Godforsaken land.

Well enough he remembers that this _muet_ was there the same as the rest of them. That he’d ripped men apart, set their homes to fire and killed on orders that may or may not have been given to them by God. Yes, he is as covered in blood as Raymond, as Raymond’s men. His sins are the same, the horror of it all.

To sit there, grinning at a little monk as though he belongs.

As though he could ever be absolved of it, of what they did.

 _Le faux semblants_ is infuriating. _Une gifle au visage._

The double-faced nerve for a man so deep in sin to claim piety, to claim _le sanctuaire_ with monks of all people. It is a disgrace, an insult to Raymond and his men.

He wants to force the man up. He wants to reveal the bloodstains he’s so cleverly tried to wash away and hide.

There is no washing away the sins they committed in the Holy Land.

Their skin is dyed, the red is set.

Such foolish little monks, falling for this act. Unaware of the monster living among them, pretending not to speak, as though he could ever make up for the screams that no doubt haunt him at night.

Raymond has long accepted his sins. His men have accepted theirs.

He can see it in his mind's eye, the _muet_ dressed in chainmail and a gambeson, cutting down their enemies with strength, blood spattering across his body as a mark declaring his fierce victory.

And yet here he cowers, begging forgiveness with his every act from a baby-faced monk with soft skin and soft hands and soft mind. Ridiculous with his obvious strength of body.

Raymond wants to challenge him. To make him stand and fight again. To accept his sins as who he is, the same as Raymond and his men.

 _Une telle_ _duplicité_ is meant for the weak; the strong have no need for it.

To waste such talent on collecting water and mending holes in cloth.

Suddenly, the _muet_ looks at him from across the fire.

His eyes burn, his fists clench against the cloth in his hands.

Raymond de Merville grins, tracing his dagger with his fingertip.

When the monks are attacked on the morrow, the man will have no choice but to give up this false dichotomy. He will fight, or he will die along with all of his little monks.

They shall see, shall they not, what sins this man still lays claim to despite all his attempts at piety.

 _Oui, ils verront_.

Raymond is quite looking forward to it.


End file.
